


House Rules

by Molly



Series: Domesticity [1]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen, ep-related:TS.104.The Debt, gen - Freeform, sentinel, series:domesticity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-21
Updated: 2008-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:44:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly/pseuds/Molly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>In which Blair stares down his toothbrush while contemplating the existence of extraterrestrial anthropologists. A sweetly non-referential missing scene from The Debt. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	House Rules

Tiny little thing, really, just a travel-worn piece of bright green plastic with little bits of white plastic stuck out of it. Of all the things I lugged from my place to Jim's in the back of the Corvair last night...

Well, and the truck.

And Simon's Taurus, which had gone over _real_ well. NOT.

Of all of it, the toothbrush in my hand was the smallest, least important thing. Well, not dentally speaking, but you know, on a cosmic level it was definitely insignificant. Last night I put it in one of the pockets of my backpack and never gave it a second thought, but now here I am with it all rinsed off and everything, and not a clue where to put it.

Just a stupid toothbrush.

My bed survived the blast, thank God; that's the important thing. And there's space for it in the spare room, too -- what the heck did he use that room for, anyway? General discomfort? Before I put my stuff in there, it was cold and empty as my last girlfriend's heart -- and that's saying something.

What the hell, at least I don't have to camp out in the living room. I've spent the night on Ellison's couch once or twice already -- thanks to an official caseload that can only be described as sadistic and assorted lunatics who don't bother punching a time clock -- and it isn't an experience I care to repeat any time soon. I have no idea how many years of Superbowl Sundays it takes to wreck a couch that severely, but if Jim's the original owner, the man is way older than he looks. The thing has more missing springs than a nuclear winter, and besides that, it's made of _vinyl_, or some unpleasantly similar material. That translates directly into "cold", and cold is something Naomi Sandburg's son has had quite enough of already this rainy season, thank you very much.

If I'd known what I was getting myself into when I agreed to be this guy's partner--

Well, I probably would've done it anyway. Just goes to show what a total moron I am. Not like _that's_ gonna be making the evening news, but it just might make Jim laugh his ass off when he walks in and finds me -- the guy who's supposed to be looking after _him_ \-- zoned out on my own reflection.

Get a _grip_, Blair. It's just a toothbrush.

Yeah, just a toothbrush. But where does it _go_?

That's what it all comes down to. Where am I supposed to put the stupid thing? Jim Ellison couldn't have anything so normal, so _necessary_, as a toothbrush holder. No, he has to have a cute little blue Oral-B special stuck in an X-Files mug that says "I want to believe." Sure you do, Jim. You want to believe that's Scully's natural haircolor, maybe, or that somewhere in the basement of the Federal Building there lurks an FBI agent with a brain, but little green men? UFO abductions?

Hey, maybe if I hang here long enough a UFO will abduct my toothbrush. It is, after all, an Earthling tool for the exploration of a bodily orifice. That's gotta cut some ice with any Little Green Anthropologists cruising around up there...

All right, enough. I'm a grown up, I've got a Master's degree in anthropology -- well, Master of Arts, anyway, just couldn't face that second statistics course. Not that it says anything bad about me as a person, you know, but it does point to a certain lack in the linear thought department, right?

Doesn't matter. I've lived among the Maori and debunked the myth of Nath agnation; I can certainly figure out the most culturally appropriate place to put my damn toothbrush.

It wouldn't be so bad if Jim weren't upstairs right now, snoring loud enough to blast any unwanted intruders into submission --

Unless they _were_ aliens, in which case maybe they wouldn't have ears. I wonder what kind of senses they'd develop to compensate for not having ears?

\-- blissfully unaware that his new partner and (temporary -- right?) room mate is standing half-naked in the bathroom obsessing about a toothbrush. I feel weird enough as it is, like I'm treading on sacred ground. Invading the space of a sentinel, no matter how contemporary or evolved he might be -- or might think himself to be -- is a fairly big deal. It's one thing for a cop to let a down-on-his-luck grad student crash in his spare room; it's quite another for a sentinel to lower the drawbridge and let a stranger into his sanctuary.

Ok, not a total stranger. I mean, once two men have eaten communal popcorn with a monkey and nearly been blown up together, they share a certain bond. I'm just not really sure that bond is strong enough yet to withstand the intimacy of our toothbrushes snuggling up together next to the sink, you know?

That's, like, family stuff.

Maybe I should just put it in my shaving kit. Then put my shaving kit in my -- temporary, right? -- room.

Man, I must not've slept long enough.

"This some kind of morning ritual with you, Chief? Daily glare at the tools of hygiene?"

Ah, hell. Leaning there in the doorway, grinning like he's gonna be teasing me about this for the rest of my natural life: Six foot whatever of robe-clad, sleep-mussed sentinel. The eye-mask-on-the-forehead thing is _not_ a good look for him.

"Uh...hi, Jim." When did the snoring stop? Probably about the same time the ceiling stopped shaking, and I didn't notice that either. Wonder how a guy with enhanced hearing deals with all that racket? It's way, way too early. "I'll just--"

"I have a scrub brush in the shower that's been showing some attitude. Maybe you could have a talk with it, let it know who's boss."

How does one successfully glare at a man in a bathrobe and white socks? "You're a riot, Ellison."

"I'm not the one communing with my toothbrush." One hand is enough to block my abortive attempt at escape. "Ah, ah -- where do you think you're going?"

Nowhere, tough guy, you make a pretty solid door. "The kitchen? For breakfast?"

"Too early for breakfast. Besides, if we're gonna have problems here, I think we should talk about it. You know, get it out in the open. Just the three of us."

"I don't think we need to involve Larry in this, Jim."

"I was talking about the toothbrush."

"Ya know, there's this thing my mom says. 'I'm letting this go. I'm letting this go.' It's supposed to clear you of any negative vibes, you know, like sadness or anger or, I don't know, deep and unreasoning sarcasm. You should try it, man."

A guy like Jim, you expect him to wake up like a bear, ready to rip your throat out over the tiniest little thing. Instead, I get the big brother from Hell. I'm starting to think maybe I'm glad I'm an only child when it occurs to me that being an only child seems to have left me woefully unprepared for Jim Ellison's sense of humor, such as it is.

"So what _are_ you doing with that thing?"

His voice is quiet all of the sudden and he's giving me _that_ look. That "nothing gets by me so don't even bother, kid" look I got that first day in my office, only this...well, this time it's just not as nerve-wracking as it was then. Or maybe it is, but just, I don't know, in a totally different way. He looks like he can see right through me, and for all I know maybe he can. I mean, the guy's a sentinel, and when it comes to practical knowledge in that arena, I am way underequipped.

"I thought zoning out was _my_ territory," he says, and there's a note in his voice now like maybe he's getting a little worried. Probably thinks I'm about to flake on him.

"Huh? Oh...sorry, Jim. I was..." I sigh, and look up at him in utter defeat. I know he's gonna have this out of me one way or another; I might as well give it up now. "I just feel weird about being in your space."

"So you're taking it out on the toothbrush?"

I shrug, and try a laugh. It doesn't sound terrifically sincere, not even to me. "I wasn't sure where to put it."

Confusion wrinkles his brow, and I can't really blame him. "What do you mean, where to put it? It goes in the cup. Where else would it go? Who raised you, anyway?"

"Hey, lay off my mom," I answer, grinning, totally without heat. "I know _yours_ goes in the cup, I just don't know where _mine_ goes. There's gotta be some kind of protocol for temporary home invasions that I'm just not aware of, so I've been trying to work it out in my head. I'm only gonna be here for a week, so I don't want to get _too_ settled, you know? But a week's a long time to live out of your shaving kit. So, on the one hand I could go ahead and leave it in my shaving kit, right, but I don't want you to think I don't feel comfortable here, and maintaining strict space delineations might be taken as a sign that I'm rejecting your hospitality. But on the other hand, if I put my toothbrush in the cup, that's like saying your space is my space and I can do what I want with it, that's like a whole other step in our relationship. It's like commitment. So I don't want-- hey, what're you-- Aw, come on, man -- "

Great, now he's got it and he's probably gonna toss it out the window just to shut me up --

Only he's seriously in my face now, and he's using the toothbrush like a pointed finger to illustrate his point --

"Sandburg, I'm gonna say this one time and one time only, so you better listen close, okay?"

I nod. I mean, the guy's _big_. Not that I'm scared of him or anything, he's pretty much proven he couldn't hurt a fly unless it was resisting arrest and had seriously pissed him off besides, but when Jim Ellison nails you to the floor with a glare, you stay put and listen.

"Good, here it is. You're not a guest here; you're my partner. As such, this place is yours as long as you need it. That whole week thing, that's a guideline, not a rule. You find a good place, somewhere with rats smaller than you are this time, and we'll move you into it. Until then -- " one final wave of the brush, "toothbrushes go in the cup."

He drops mine in next to his, and stands there looking at me, and I stand there looking back at him like he's some kind of space alien himself. Forget invasion forces, it's time to check the basement for pods. He doesn't look upset; he doesn't even look confused anymore. Just kind of smug. Pleased with himself. He's smiling at me, and I find myself smiling back, before I even have a chance to think about it.

"So draconian," I say, teasing a little. Testing the waters. Brave, brave guy, that's me. "If I'd known there were gonna be house rules...."

I'm still grinning when he reaches out and bops me on the side of the head, like a big cat trying to play. "That's just the first," he says, then steps aside and pushes me out of the bathroom ahead of him. "Lots more where that one came from..."

He starts in on rules for the bathroom, and by the time I'm done with breakfast he's showered and dressed and covered every room in the loft. I'm a big boy, I can hack it. Not like I didn't just _know_ the guy was gonna be a neat freak, right?

Larry seems to like it here. Funny, isn't it, how sunlight can make a place look lot more like a home...?


End file.
